Rain Down Over Me
by KyinHI
Summary: She uses the surge of chemicals as a balm and as an analgesic. Delights in the tingle in her fingers, the heady rush in her forehead, behind her eyes. It blurs her vision and numbs the pain.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello again. You know the drill. I own nothing. Marlowe and Co. own all. I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy.**

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><p>She'd told him. Her secret.<p>

She'd told him and the bottom had fallen out.

He'd stalked from his living room towards the study. His eyes flashing with anger and hurt, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Lightning flashed in the night sky and rain whipped at the windows. A fitting atmosphere, she'd thought, ruing her need to have come over here in the first place.

She could have left it alone, gone on pretending she'd never heard a thing, didn't remember. She could have but she didn't want to anymore. Didn't want to spend another minute waiting in a holding pattern. Waiting for the stars to align or the walls to fall. For an ending to a story that may never come. Waiting to fly. She'd already fallen.

If she wanted her own happy ending, perhaps all she had to do was ask.

A chance encounter along a near deserted sidewalk on a wet Sunday afternoon had prompted this calamitous unfurling of events.

A sudden rainstorm, driving all but the most free-spirited or the most unmindful inside. Frowning to shield her eyes from the rain, shivering as the cool breeze passed through alleyways, Kate had tramped along, bags of groceries weighing down her arms. A night, a never-ending string of nights, spent rehashing a wasted summer. Weighing down her heart, weighing down her soul.

Two lovers, laughing and pulling at wet garments had brought her up short. Stopped her dead in her tracks, mesmerized her and left her unable to look away. Her hands slapping at his soppy chest, her head thrown back in laughter. His, brushing along the smooth curve of her breasts, the long line of her neck. A smirk, a knowing grin. Their lips, locking together and moving with abandon.

It had hit her with a sudden jolt, sent her fingers tingling and her stomach fluttering. This. This freedom, this moment of abandon could be hers. All she had to do was go to him. All she had to do was let him know.

The smirk could be his, the smile hers.

With a new-found determination and a burgeoning sense of hope she had turned around, put herself on a course towards his place. Towards, she hoped, her future.

It took longer than she would have liked. Long enough to make her doubt herself. She should have hailed a cab. Her sopping clothes and erratically beating heart as she stood looking up towards his loft were a testament to that. She'd allowed herself too long to mull over the possibilities and the ramifications of a decision made in haste. A decision made while battling the remnants of narcotics and the burn and sting at her side, between her breasts. The sight of his hopeful gaze and the guilt brought forth from belonging to someone else.

Not really though. She had belonged to him for years. She had just been too weak to admit it.

Too weak, when in that moment, it had taken all she had to simply breathe.

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><p>She hadn't planned to shut him out. When she said a couple days, she had meant it. She had needed time to deal with Josh, to assure her Dad that she wasn't going anywhere, to formulate an answer to him. She loved him. Desperately. That much was true. But with a sniper after her, thirteen years of mistrusting in the permanence of love and an almost blind panic that if they couldn't get to her, they would go after him, the fear had insidiously wrapped itself around her heart. Fortified her walls and sent her running to her father's cabin.<p>

The longer she waited the harder it got. She had sent him away, his face etched with pain and words of love left unsaid. His chance to reaffirm his graveside confession gone, her chance to acknowledge it lost in a moment of panic. Days turned into weeks and as her body healed she lulled herself into a deep state of denial. Told herself that he didn't mean it, that the adrenaline and fear of the moment had made him confess to something that he, they, weren't ready for. As the days lingered on and he made no attempt at contact, it had only re-affirmed her choice. To pack it tightly away and pretend it didn't happen. She was adept at pretending. A master.

It wasn't until she had returned to the city, to everything she thought she knew, that she realized what a monumental mistake she had made.

The first flaw in her reasoning had appeared not five minutes after she stepped back into the precinct's walls. The applause had fallen flat without Castle there to nudge her in the hip or smirk in her direction. The lack of Roy's presence had been like a knife to the gut. Or a bullet to the chest, she had thought wryly, touching the pads of her fingers to the puckered scar on her chest. She'd been suspended in the past while the city continued to live. Frozen in a moment long since passed.

The boys had updated her on the case, told her of Castle's dogged attempts to work it, to keep a connection to her even as she pushed him away. She realized in that moment how cold her dismissal at her bedside had been. The man had tried to step in front of a bullet for her. Her heart had taken the shot but she'd placed a metaphorical one through his. She'd looked him in the eye and lied to his face. His features had shown a brief realization of that truth before he had shuttered his emotions and inclined to her wishes. Of course he hadn't called. Her mind recalled his last lingering look before he'd retreated. The scene replaying itself over and over. The curious tilt of his head, the bob of his adam's apple and the sheen of moisture in his eyes. The hurt.

As they told her about the new captain and how cold she was, she couldn't help but feel as though they were blind to her own frigidity.

And so she'd sought him out. Waited in line with her heart in her throat and his words in her hands.

_Detective Kate Beckett has shown me the ropes of homicide investigation, not to mention ___how to make sense of songs___… _

It had taken her breath away as she stood in line and read the acknowledgments. She had read the book weeks earlier, of course. She'd sent her dad out to buy it the moment it hit the bookstores, needing to feel his presence in her life in some small way. Too upset to proceed after the heart wrenching ending, she'd placed the tome aside and avoided his personal notes. An unconscious part of her mind not willing to know whether she was mentioned or not. Not daring to hope she had. It was a clear sign that at least at some point this summer he had made an attempt to reach out. That he still cared.

A cryptic message left for her to understand, for the entire world to see.

She'd repeated the line to herself as she approached the front of the line, as he shrouded his surprise, his momentary joy, with a visage of sheer disdain. Held onto the words as he silently signed her book with not a second glance. Made them her mantra as she waited for him outside the store.

She had bared her soul, that day on the swings. As best she knew how, anyway, and they had reached a tentative equilibrium. Yet she hadn't the courage to tell him and so it snowballed. As the weeks wore on, a new normal was found. Gates had slowly warmed up to the unconventional partnership and as the summer became a more distant memory they lapsed again into their easy relationship. Inching ever so slowly towards more; held back by her hastily made decision on a warm, spring morning, her silence over a long, hot summer. By her cowardice on a crisp, fall afternoon.

She had hoped this unseasonably warm, winter evening would end on a more hopeful note.

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><p>She had arrived on his doorstep, sodden and shivery. Water pooling at her feet as she stood, hand raised, readying herself to knock on his door. As she mentally prepared herself for the confrontation to come, rehearsing the truth and apologies, practicing her own declarations of love, he had appeared.<p>

The door had flown open, sudden and unexpectedly, his hands grasping a garbage bag, hers dropping the groceries. Shock, turned joy, turned lust, sparkled in his cerulean eyes. The bag he held dropped heavily alongside the groceries as he took in her appearance.

"Why Detective Beckett, how nice too see you here," he had leered, as his gaze washed over her soaked shirt, taking in the silhouette of her bra, lingering somewhere around the curve of her hips and the slacks that clung to her rear.

"Rick, can I.." she trailed off, gesturing inside his apartment. Plucking at the edges of her wet shirt with a grin.

He had ushered her inside with a light brush against her wrist, a deep exhale as she passed. She had smirked and considered not going through with it. Allowing them to happen circumstantially, spurred on by a see-through shirt and long awaited need. Her traitorous mind had reminded her that he was her 'one and done', that this thing between them needed to start with honesty; so as to not crash and burn.

"Can I get you a drink or .."

"We need to talk, Rick.." they started simultaneously as he had handed her over a fluffy towel. It smelled of fabric softener and _him_. His home. It sent liquid heat to her center and set her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribcage. Her home, if she allowed it. If he'd forgive her.

"That's twice you've called me Rick," he had said with an incline of his head and a small smile.

"So?"

"You only call me Rick when something heavy is going on. Should I sit down for this?"

"Probably," she had muttered, beginning to lose her nerve. Gripping the edges of the damp towel with white knuckles. Silently, she sent up a prayer for forgiveness.

A gentle hand on her elbow, his trusting, blue eyes. Calm, unsuspecting, practically shining with his love for her. The look he gives her when he says _"Always_", the look he gives her when he thinks she's unaware.

It had been enough to give her strength, sufficient to spur her on. How she wishes now that she'd never looked.

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><p>He'd stalked from the living room angry and hurt. She'd considered leaving him be. Letting him cool off before pleading for forgiveness. She'd never truly realized how much she had hurt him until that moment.<p>

"I watched you die in that ambulance," he had repeated. His earlier confession from months ago, still choking a little on the words. Running his hand through his hair, pacing his office like a caged animal, she had waited. Known he wasn't finished. Known it wasn't her turn to speak.

"I watched the woman I _love_ die. I watched _you_ die." he had continued.

It had caused her heart to skip a beat. He loved her. He still loved her.

He watched her die.

_Oh._

He watched her die and she had sent him packing. For a moment she imagined herself as if the roles had been reversed. The hurt she would have felt, the need she would have felt to be at his side during his recovery. The rejection at not being the one. He'd thought she was with Josh the entire summer. He'd thought she had chosen Josh.

_Oh. Oh, Castle. I'm so sorry. _

He had looked relieved for a moment, just a small moment after he admitted he loved her. And she had thought they had a chance. Waiting a beat until that confession had sunk in, his voice changed from hurt to anger. "You knew I loved you and yet you let me live every day last summer not knowing. You left me, you left me alone."

"Castle, I didn't mean to...I..." she stuttered over the words she wanted to say so very badly. She stumbled and God help her, that was the moment where it all went to hell.

A crack of thunder, the sharp, white flash of lightning. Almost as if it had been staged.

"Don't." he had said as the thunder rumbled off into the distance, as the rain splattered onto the windows, the drops cascading down the pane in time with the tears falling from her cheeks. Hot rivers of anguish, a contrast to his stoic countenance.

Cold. Hard. Resolute. His voice cut at her like a knife. Ripped into the parts of herself she kept so very well guarded, tore at her flesh and dug into her soul. She had to get through to him, to make him see. She waited a moment, until another roll of thunder has ceased, until it was quiet and she knew there would be no misunderstandings.

"Castle, I love you."

Her voice was strong, confident. The words had come easy but much too late. Months too late.

"You couldn't. If you did.." he trailed off, the words dying in his throat. He had turned away, stared out towards the gray of the city. Soft, orange, light filtered through the windows. Highlighted the scars she had left. Drooping shoulders and ragged breaths. Deep lines in his forehead and dark, clouded eyes.

She knew what he had meant. If she did, love him, how could she have left him to suffer like that? How could she have been so selfish? She didn't know. Doesn't know. All she knows is that she is losing him. Losing him on the day she had finally chosen to let go of her mother's case and start living for today.

And so she had done the only thing she could think of to make him see. To make him understand what she felt. She stalked toward him like an animal after prey, grabbed him by the bicep and roughly spun him toward her.

"Castle, look at me." He made no attempt to acquiesce. "Please."

He had turned, slow and hesitant. Eyes searching for any sign that she was telling the truth. She focused on him and his generous heart, his strength of character and inexhaustible loyalty. Four years he had been waiting for her, holding her steady. Lifting her up and setting her free. She let her emotions pour out through her gaze, waited as long as he needed. Until he saw it. Felt it.

She had noticed, the moment he believed it. His eyes softened, crinkles forming at the edges. A small nod. Acceptance. Reaching up to cup his face, to trace the strong line of his jaw, to smooth the lines at his brow. Short stubble grazed the pads of her fingertips, she wanted it to brand her face. Her neck. The scar on her chest. She wanted him to leave his mark on her.

"I love you," she had whispered.

"I love you," he'd husked back.

And in a crash of arms and legs and wet fabric, they had sealed it with a kiss.

Hot and searing. She imagined steam rising from between their tightly entwined bodies. He had backed her up against the desk, his heavy weight crushing her and sending delicious waves of arousal to her core. This was not a kiss of exploration or of first dates and promises. It was a kiss of possession. Savage and unending, it was four years of pent up frustration, anger and betrayal. Grasping at hair and clawing at tense muscles. Four years of lusting and desire. Squeezing and grabbing at flesh. Four years of build up. Finally. Ascension to love. Caressing and soothing, soft. Gentle. As the fires cooled and acceptance built it had transformed to a slow and deliciously sensual burn.

It had been perfect.

It had been perfect until that damn remote had crashed to the floor. Until she had swept across his desk with an outstretched arm, looking to make herself more comfortable. Looking to get herself claimed right then, right there. Right where he had first dreamed of Kate and Rick by way of Nikki and Rook. She'd been looking to let him know that she was finally, finally on the same page as him. Instead she had glanced behind him as she came up for air and saw the smart board.

Saw her face staring eerily back towards her.

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><p><strong>AN: So, whatcha think? You know what I like. Hit up the review box and make me happy. **

**Also, for those reading Percolate, I haven't given up on it. I have a couple of chapters in a state of being semi-written. I'm just not happy with them and have lost a little bit of mojo on that story. But it will be finished. It's just that's it's a story I like to write while I re-watch the series and I haven't had any time to do a whole lot of that lately. I apologize. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Still don't own them. Carry on.**

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><p>She'd told him. Her secret.<p>

She followed him, from the living room to the confines of his study. Into his lair. His sanctuary. He'd expected her to run. Run away from his fury. From his hurt. But she'd followed.

She'd followed him. And the bottom had fallen out.

Standing, staring out the foggy windows toward the city, he had contemplated telling her his own. What he would give to have the chance to go back and do it all over again. To tell her. Before he'd tasted her.

But as the rain had slapped upon the window panes and the lightning had flashed across dark sky, he'd caught her scent. Heavy and sweet, wet and woody. He'd almost choked as the perfume assaulted his senses. Tuberose. Strong and lasting. Persistent. Orange blossom and jasmine. Oh so feminine. A heady musk. He couldn't decide if it was the bottled scent or her own. It didn't matter.

That's when he knew. Knew he couldn't tell her. Because she'd followed him and she was wearing Fracas.

For him.

An offhand quip during the case with the dog. The thought of Royal sends a pang of longing to his heart. He could use a warm body to snuggle on the couch with right about now.

After he'd held her hand and rubbed circles. Softly, repeatedly. After she'd croaked out his name and he saw for just a moment something other than rejection in her eyes. He'd seen that same look out in the living room just moments earlier. Before it all fell apart. He'd seen hope. Trepidation. Love. And it was too much. He'd panicked, like he did that night in her apartment. He'd run to his office and she'd followed.

Kate didn't do the following, he did. Like a puppy, like a shadow. Her shadow. And if she was following and if she was initiating tough conversations, he didn't quite know what to do.

All he knew was that there were still cross-hairs over her heart and at her back. There were strangers lurking in the shadows waiting for her to make a move, waiting for an excuse to wipe out the last person on this earth whom they thought gave a damn about their corrupt actions and shameful deeds. They were wrong. He cared. Fervently; but they didn't know that. They thought he was just a pawn placed to keep her at bay. A playboy author with a reckless sense of fun and entitlement. He liked it that way.

He knew he couldn't tell her because he loved her. Loved her despite the pain of the funeral. The following days. The weeks and months she had shut him out. The only thing he wanted more than to forgive her and to take her into his arms, was to have her live.

It would have been easy to forgive her. As she confessed her secret on the sofa, with her soft voice and her watery eyes. As her damp clothes left a patch of moisture that crept ever so slowly towards him. It would have been easy. But if keeping her alive meant going against what every fiber in his body was screaming at him to do, to feel, to say; then that is what he must do. He had grasped at every night spent alone and wondering during the summer, held onto the feelings as he'd sat at her bedside before she woke up. When Josh had come and told him to go home. Told him he wasn't needed. Felt the bile rising in his throat as he replayed the morning she had lied to his face and told him she didn't remember.

It was easy to lie to her. A lie by omission really but a lie all the same. So very easy when so much was at stake. Her life.

Lightning, blinding and ominous had washed the room in a pale yellow glow for just a fraction of a second. A calm before the rolling thunder, the storm about to be brought forth in his usually serene hideaway.

"Castle, I love you."

Did she know what it had done to him? When she'd uttered those words, so confident and sure. Did she know what it had taken from him to not crush her into a bruising embrace? God. He hoped she knew how much this hurt. To save her from herself. He hoped she'd forgive him. Later. When he'd dug deeper. When he'd gotten a hold of the bastard who killed her mother. When he'd brought her the justice she so desperately wanted. When she was safe.

He knew she'd be furious. He knew it was a fools errand to try and do this on his own. All reason went out the door though, that bright spring day when she lay bleeding crimson upon bright green grass. The day his friend, her mentor, had been laid to rest. The day when for the first time since bringing a tiny, squalling newborn home form the hospital, he knew he would die for someone. Put his life on the line without a second thought. He would die to keep them safe. He'd do it happily and with no regrets. That's what family does.

She'd grasped his arm. Spun him hard and purposely in her direction. He wouldn't look at her. Couldn't. Not when jasmine was tickling at his nose and body heat was radiating between them like an electrical current.

"Please."

One word. That's all it took to undo him.

Detective Beckett does not beg. She is powerful. In control and in charge of her emotions. She is a six foot dynamo in heels. Kicking ass and taking names. She is the object of more than a few of his fantasies. Compelling and mighty. He pushes her buttons and pulls cheekily on her pigtails. If Detective Beckett was here, he'd be able to resist. He'd make a sarcastic remark, an icy rebuke and send her on her way.

But Kate is here. Just Kate. Kate is soft and pliable. Delightfully feminine and sultry. She's uncertain and afraid. She's the woman who, thirteen years ago, had her heart broken for the first time. And she'd said "please". He can't be the one to break it again. Without realizing it was happening, before he had a chance to stop himself he was staring into her eyes. Amber pools of warmth, emerald flecks of hope. Dilated pupils, dark and deep.

And she was waiting. For him. Following and waiting.

Suddenly, their roles were reversed and he was helpless.

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><p>His head inclines, straightens. Acceptance without his full realization. His mental capacities reduced by the scent of Fracas and rain. Her touch. She smiles and her hand is on his face. The pads of her fingers leave trails of fire along his jawline, leave him gulping for breath. God. He needed air. A minute to gather himself. Firm up his resolve. Her thumb smooths his brow, attempts to erase the lines of worry. And she says it again. And he is gone in an instant.<p>

"I love you."

He says it back and his mouth in on hers. Angry and needy all at once. So very angry that she has this power over him. The power to make him lose control when so much is at stake. He bites at her neck, and sucks on her lips. His hand roams under her damp shirt and grasps at the soft flesh below. He feels the raised little bumps of skin and knows it has nothing to do with a chill. Need. He needs her to know she is his now. He assaults her mouth and tangles his hands in her hair. She has to know because once he gains the courage to tell her_ his_ secret, she's going to want to run. She has to know she belongs to him and that no matter how hard she tries, he's not letting her go. He just needs to let her know first. She _has_ to know.

The fire cools and the embrace settles into a languid exploration. Loving and tender. Over and over again he tells her with his mouth. She hums into his throat and her arm swipes at the contents of his desk. He feels a lascivious grin spreading over his face. He knows where this is heading and he appreciates the symbolism. She wants to be claimed. On the desk where he wrote them. Before she knew. He's always known.

_Always._

He's going to take her. She's his.

_Kate. Always._

A gasp. A sharp intake of breath and a rough punch to the shoulder.

_What the hell just happened?_

"Castle, what the fuck?"

_Huh?_

Her eyes are fiery. Glinting with something he's never seen before. Not when he's pushed or when he'd left. Not when he'd returned. Never before. Hatred. Deep and searing loathing. And so much pain.

The realization hits him slow, his blood having a hard time returning north. His pulse quickening ever more as the layout of this room assaults his mind. Where her gaze is directed. Behind him. The board. The secret is out.

_Oh shit. Oh fuck. Not like this._

And then she's gone. He hears her angry footfall. Hears the door slam. The rattle as the bookshelves reverberate with the force of it. His stomach lurches as thunder rolls and he finds himself braced over porcelain.

He purges his stomach and rests his head against the cool, white lavatory.

He's okay with it.

His heart is broken and he may never see her again. But he's okay with it because she's alive. She's safe and alive and she doesn't have any new information. He trusts the boys will keep her afloat. Trusts they will keep her from falling down the rabbit hole. He's fallen too far now, there's no going back. He trusts the captain will keep her busy with new cases and maybe a new partner. It sends a searing pain to his gut. But it's okay. She'll be safe. He trusts Lanie will mend her heart with tubs of ice-cream and verbal assaults on his character. It's okay. She'll be alive to hear it.

He trusts her dad will hold her when she cries, shush her and tell her it's all going to be okay. He knows he will; because it's what he'd do for Alexis. He suspects her dad might even thank him for this.

It's all okay.

Because she's safe. And alive.

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><p>If only he hadn't tasted her.<p>

If only he'd told her.

Told her why. How. About late night phone calls and shadowy figures in badly lit garages. If he'd told her before he'd tasted her, before he'd broken her trust so thoroughly, he might have kept her. If he'd told her, he wouldn't be sitting here. A broken man on an empty couch in an empty apartment.

But it's okay.

She'll be okay.

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><p><strong>AN: And there's chapter two for you. Angsty much, Ky? **

**A big, huge thanks to all of you who have, so far, alerted, favorited and especially reviewed. I know I say it all the time but they really do make my day. **

**Nicole: If you're reading this, thanks! If kicking-ass was a job description you'd be hired on the spot. Toward/towards? Use 'em both! It's what I'm going with. Shut up! ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**It's short, but it's gonna be sweet. Next chapter. Sorry about that.**

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><p>She ran.<p>

Out of the loft and into the night. She ran until her legs cramped and her chest burned. She ran, until weighted down by saturated clothes and a heavy heart, she couldn't run anymore. Collapsing on a low and crumbling brick wall, with her face in her hands, she sobbed. Until her throat was raw and her eyes stung from salt. Until a kindly, old man with sparkling, blue eyes asked her if she was okay and a fresh bout of anguish had taken over. She saw in the sympathetic gaze something she was trying urgently to escape. A benevolence and openhearted regard, looking to comfort and offer aid. She saw Castle.

No, she saw Rick.

And so she ran some more.

First home. To a warm bath and a jigger, or three, of scotch. The liquid burns it's way down her throat, flares warm in her belly and reminded her of things she wishes she could forget.

Laying in the tub trying to will his shocked face from her mind, she realizes too late that the last place she needs to be is the place she usually reserves for his books and her fantasies. Images from his volumes, of Rook and Nikki, intermingle with imaginations of a firm desk and a warm tongue. Grasping hands and colliding tongues.

Suddenly, her blood runs cold and the steaming water can do nothing to sooth her aching calves or her addled mind.

And so, to the precinct. To the soothing sounds and familiar hustle and bustle of a Friday night, she runs. She dives into long put-off paperwork but gives up before long, when the whiteout runs dry and her mind runs ragged. Instead, she gets herself attached to a fresh pop and drop. Something she can do without thought.

Without him.

She hopes it will take a few days. A week would be good. Enough time to get her head straight. Enough time to let the monotony of witness statements and evidence collection ease the jagged edges back into place. To build her armor back up and to work out a game plan. She uses her seniority against a rookie looking for an easy close, looking to pad his resume and adds another layer to her ever growing accumulation of guilt.

Guilt for dragging him into this mess that is her life, for allowing him to fall in love with her and for putting him in danger. Guilt for running when her heart is screaming she should have stayed.

She closes the case in record time. Two door knocks and a foot chase down a darkened alley is all it takes.

She doesn't even get to pull her gun.

She yells, "Stop, police!" and she'll be damned but the perp actually listens. Drops to his knees and confesses to his sins before she even has the chance to put the cuffs on him. It leaves her hopped up on adrenaline and looking for a fight. The windshield wipers shriek and groan on the short drive back to the Twelfth, grate on her nerves, leave her fingers twitching at the wheel. By the time she has him in lockup, it's takes all she has left in her not to draw blood when Gates congratulates her. She did a good job without him, without her shadow.

Roughly, she pulls her hair back into a bun but doesn't bother changing her clothes. Wisps of hair dangle limply and damp at her forehead, in her eyes, and she angrily blows them away. There's no time. Bare feet and jeans will do. She's glad she wore a tank under her jacket. Gives thanks for small miracles.

She's in the gym and punching at the bag before the adrenaline can wear off and the sadness can set in. Before she can let herself stop and think.

Of him. It's _always_ him.

She revels in the self torture of her improvised workout. The lacy bra she chose today digging on her, mocking her with every swing and reminding her with every swat. She uses the surge of chemicals as a balm and as an analgesic. Delights in the tingle in her fingers, the heady rush in her forehead, behind her eyes. It blurs her vision and numbs the pain.

She imagines his face. His trusting and adoring face. She punches until it transforms into the guilty and panic stricken visage she'd seen before storming out. She punches until her knuckles are red and swollen. Until her heart rate is racing from effort instead of emotion. She punches until she simply can't anymore and then she collapses forward. Her head molds to the vinyl and sand, her pulse thrums down the column of her neck. She takes large gulping breaths of air and waits for the constricting feeling in her chest to withdraw.

It never happens.

She wraps her arms around the bag and respires heavily. Eyes closed and with sweat pooling in the crease between her breasts, she concentrates on the sound of the blood rushing in her ears. Counts her heartbeat, over and over, until she lulls herself into a trance like state. Nothing but her and the bag and the blessed quiet of the deserted gym.

She gradually becomes aware of his scent, all woody and masculine, spicy and strong. The hint of vanilla. Sweet. So very, _'Castle'_.

She chuckles to herself wryly. At the lunacy she's surely descending into. She refuses to open her eyes. Instead, wills the memories to last a moment longer. Tells a god she doesn't believe in that she will change her ways, become an open and sharing person. Become someone who stays instead of a running if she can just go back. An hour, a day.

Nine months, twelve days and change.

To a time before the final straw. Her captain and a snipers rifle. To a time when she thought they had a chance.

To a time before she ran.

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><p><strong>AN: Since all the monies were fake and all the sexy-times put off until next chapter, I offer to my beta, Nicole, sweaty boobs!**


	4. Chapter 4

She ran.

From his sanctuary and his happy place. His writing place. She ran from his betrayal. From his protection and his love. He needs to write, get the jumbled mess of emotion out of his head and onto the page.

But she ran.

He can't even look in that direction, toward his office with the memories still fresh and reeling. Her scent still lingers in the room and the puddle where her rain-soaked clothes dripped on his floor prevails. He considers wiping up the mess before it damages the wood flooring. Decides against it. Let it be a reminder, he thinks. Of how close they had been. What they could have become.

But he can't look at it. Not now. Not when it's so fresh.

He needs to release the pressing weight on his chest, all the words he could have, should have, said. They flow like a river that's broken it's banks through his mind. He needs to write. But he just _can't_ go in there. Not yet. He can't.

Instead, he grabs a notebook and a pen he'd thankfully left on the kitchen counter and makes his way out of the loft. Out of the cloying sense of despair that surrounds him as he spies her groceries, left forgotten at the door. He kicks at a bag as he passes and he feels some relief with the thud as it hits the wall.

He taps his foot impatiently, waits on the elevator. Eyes the stairwell but dismisses it as a little too over-dramatic. Even for him. Even in his current state of mind. With the luck he's had tonight, he thinks, he'd probably topple ass over teakettle and break his neck on the way down.

The elevator dings it's arrival and he sighs a breath of relief.

Escape. Thank God. But it's short lived.

She's a flurry of bangles, silver and gold. A swirl of fabric, jade and lavender. Always one to buck the trend, she somehow manages to pull off this mesh of clashing colors and over-accessorizing. A waft of Chanel and expensive bourbon. In any other time or place she'd be a familiar comfort.

But he's not looking for comfort. Doesn't know if he can handle it or keep his emotions in check if there's a willing ear and a warm shoulder.

"Richard, darling!" she says laying a kiss on his cheek. "Wherever are you going at this hour and why such a rush? Is there a new murder for you to solve? Wait! Are you finally going to go over to Kate's and sweep that woman off her feet?"

He winces. His stomach churning as his brain flashes on that very scene. Sweeping her off her feet and towards the desk. Towards the remote and their downfall.

"Before I'm too old for more grandchildren?" she adds with a smirk that quickly falters, is replaced with concern, as she settles and looks him in the eye.

"Richard..."

Of course she notices. She's tipsy. Not tanked.

He curses himself for ribbing her before she'd left. For telling her to be home before midnight or the door would be chained and she'd be sleeping in her pumpkin. For threatening her with the dangers of liver damage and excessive excitement at her advanced age.

With all her drama and exuberance for life, he sometimes forgets that at the center of it all she is his mother first and she cares about him. Loves him.

She has gone out of her way in recent years to make up for what might have been lacking in his youth. She dotes on his daughter and hovers when he's near. Making up for when she'd struggled to pay the bills. When working a waitress job and off-off Broadway shows, the pressure had become too much and she'd left him with an uncaring babysitter. Then later, with frozen dinners and piles of books, as her career had taken off and money wasn't an issue but she simply didn't have the time.

He doesn't hold it against her. It's made him what he is, both the good and the bad. The reading had led him to writing. To freedom and joy. His career. The sitter had perhaps set an example he should have tried harder to avoid. He'd spent more than his fair share of nights as a new and single father, out and trying to prove something to the world. To himself and to Meredith. When he should have been home with his baby girl.

No, he doesn't hold it against her. He understands and he makes a decision to let it show rather than continue their usual routine of gentle teasing and loving harassment. He sighs, braces himself and prepares to divulge. Takes her hand and leads her back into the loft. He'll let her in and confess it all. Like he should have done for Kate.

She eyes the wet, plastic bags on the floor. The limp vegetables and the flattened loaf of bread. She probably senses the general disarray, the chaotic vibe in the apartment. She's good with that. It comes with the 'craft'.

She raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

"Not here," he says, eying the sofa like it's contaminated. The office like it's polluted and vile. He pulls her up the stairs, to her bedroom. Somewhere neutral and Kate-free.

Still, she says nothing. Just squeezes his hand and lets him lead the way.

He falls down on the bed and rests his forearm across his face. To shield his eyes from the overhead light. From her concerned gaze. To hide. In case he can't stop what's rising to the brim, threatening to spill from the corner of his eyes.

He doesn't know where to begin.

He feels the bed shift as she climbs up beside him on the bed, lets a small smile tug at his lips as '_No. 5' _again fills his senses. Her perfume is comforting and he's glad he didn't rush out into the night. As the spicy floral and sandalwood notes send memories of kissed boo-boos and shared laughs to his rib-cage, it eases some of the pressure. Releases some of the pain.

He doesn't know where he would have gone anyway.

Not to the precinct. Not anymore. Kate is his only link and while Gates may have warmed up to him, he is under no impression that he'd be allowed to stay if she'd heard wind of their parting of ways. Montgomery would have let him stay. Probably would have let him trail the boys, if they'd have him. If they didn't shoot him for hurting her. Montgomery would have let him stay until he figured out a way to win her back. To apologize and promise her anything. Forever if she'd have him.

God. He misses his friend.

He had become more than an occasional poker buddy during the years he'd been granted access to the Twelfth. He'd become someone to look up to and admire. Someone to learn from and lean on. He'd become a hero. A father figure.

Montgomery, in one night and surrounded by hail of bullets, had both shattered all his perceptions and fully redeemed himself. He'd made the ultimate sacrifice but left a gaping hole in his wake.

God, how he wishes he could take back the last three and half years and do it all over again. Figure out some way to re-write the ending. Erase the mistakes and score out the misunderstandings with the stroke of a key and a flash of inspiration.

He certainly couldn't have gone to Kate's.

Not now. Maybe not ever. How he wants to though. He'll take a beating and a berating. Angry words and fists to the chest would be fine. Anything but the look in her eyes as she'd run. The sound of her choked sob over the slam of the door.

He's fucked this up royally by not coming clean. By falling into her trusting gaze and loving touch. She'd asked to be taken and he'd seized the opportunity. Betrayed her trust, perhaps irrevocably, when he'd taken her by the mouth to the desk; instead of by hand to the board.

If not for his mother's good timing, he probably would have ended up at _'The Old Haunt'_. A bottle of Scotch, a flurry of nonsensical words and an embarrassing incident or two to add to the list of mistakes.

He would have ended up at the Twelfth. Only handcuffed and in the drunk tank, rather than contented and in her space.

He thanks God for small miracles.

"She knows," he finally breaths out. His voice feels ragged and his throat dry. He swallows the bile that rises and threatens to send him back to worship at the feet of the porcelain god.

"You told her?" his mother questions gently. Knowing exactly what would cause him to be so stricken. So broken and disturbed.

"No," he huffs guiltily.

She pats his knee, raises a brow. Silently urges him to continue.

So he does.

He tells her everything. Of his surprise and joy when she'd shown up unannounced and soaking wet at his door. He grins briefly at the vision and his mother swats him on the bicep. He tells her about her confession on the couch and of his hurt. Of stalking to his office and all that followed.

When he is done his whole body sags. In exhaustion. In relief. She pulls him into her arms, like she once did when he was small and afraid. Or hurt and upset. She hushes and she soothes. Makes soft sounds and waits until his breathing is regular before speaking.

"You know kiddo, you've really gone and fucked this one up." she says with just a slight hint of good humor.

"Mother!" he scolds sitting up abruptly and staring at her in shock. Her language, while colorful, is usually not vulgar.

"What? It seemed the appropriate usage. Surely you, Richard Castle, author extraordinaire, can appreciate a well timed expletive. Really Richard, it fits." she huffs with a smile and soft hand in his hair.

He has to agree. Fucked up, it most definitely is.

"Go to her," she continues, all mirth gone from her eyes. Her face serious and knowing. "You love her, she loves you. She'll come around, Darling. Maybe not today or tomorrow. Maybe not even soon. But go to her. She loves you and she will come around."

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow. Skeptical and unsure.

"Mother, I really don't think that's wise.."

"Ah-a.." she cuts him off and taps him on the nose. "Was is not you who, just this very evening, advised me of just how aged I really am? Let me tell you something about that, my boy. With age comes wisdom. And I am a veritable font. Go to her. Because even if she doesn't know it yet, she's waiting for you."

He really doesn't have any other options. His mother is right.

She runs and he waits. She waits and he runs. A push and pull, the inescapable orbit that's slowly dragging them toward each other. He hopes they can survive the impact more or less whole. Hopes their shattered fragments will meld into something new and beautiful once the unavoidable gravity brings them hurtling back together.

He hopes the weight doesn't crush them into dust.

Hopes they converge into something new. Unspoiled. Red-hot and beautiful.

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><p><strong>AN: Please don't lynch me. This angst-fest came to me and I just had to include it. I'll put them in the same room together really soon. Promise.**

**Nicole, ass-kicker and beta extraordinaire, is gonna divorce me and go find someone else for her sexy-time needs if I don't. "There must be hotness in the next chapter," she says. I can't afford all the imaginary monies it would take to pay alimony, so hotness there will be. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Alas, I still own nothing. But if _yo_u own something and want me to have a piece of it, I'd be more than happy to oblige.**

**Also, FFN? Being down all day while I had a completed chapter waiting to be posted? Not cool. Not cool at all. It left me WAY too much time to angst over this chapter.**

**Also, rating has been changed to M. You've been warned. Don't complain to me if you're left hanging on to the edge of your seat and cursing my name. ;)**

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><p>She's here. At the gym.<p>

He'd checked her house, the park, Remy's and finally the Twelfth where he'd found her savagely attacking the bag in the precinct gym.

She's here. At the gym. And she's angry.

She attacks the bag like a woman possessed. Swings wild and uncontrolled. Her normally pleasant visage is a contorted mess of flared nostrils and clenched jaw. Her pent up emotions spew forth at random intervals. Sweat runs in rivers, mats flyaway hairs to the side of her face and gives her a menacing looking sheen.

His name makes an appearance more than a few times.

He feels it wise not to approach just yet. Retreats back into the shadows and waits with shallow breath and a riveted gaze.

"Stupid man!"

Dead center, a close approximation of where his nose would be.

"Damn it!"

She swings wild, fist glancing off the bag. The bag jerks and motions far to the left.

"Fucking Castle!"

She uses a leg to still the momentum, raises a knee to groin level for good measure.

"Why?"

A balled fist, thrust low and to the right. Enough to crack a few ribs.

He's glad he stayed in the shadows.

She continues her angry tirade for long moments. Minutes tick by, it approaches a half hour. More than he thought possible. He doesn't envy anyone with the misfortune to be matched up against her in hand to hand combat. Still, he'd like to try his hand in less enraged circumstances. Despite his reasons for being here and the awful mess they have made of it, there's no denying that watching her exact revenge on the bag is something of a turn on.

Eventually, weariness takes over and he breathes a sigh of relief as her blows soften and her shoulders slump. She makes a few more halfhearted punches but quickly surrenders to the fatigue. Her head rests against the bag, shoulders and chest heaving as she gulps for breath. He hears her choke back a sob. Watches with a heavy heart as she wraps her arms around the dangling cylinder.

He can't take it. He wants to be the one she's holding on to. The one holding her up.

Decision made and nerve gathered, he treads quietly toward her.

She makes no visible acknowledgment of his presence. Unnaturally still and rhythmically breathing, her face buried in the bag, he thinks it wise not to call out now that he's so near. He doesn't want to startle her. Or spur her into another bout of animosity. He needs the upper hand, some control. Because if she starts, he won't stop her and he'd rather not end up in the hospital, nursing a broken bone as well as a broken heart.

He wrap his arms around her and her body startles. Her hands grip tightly at his arms. Nails dig into flesh, mark him and burn. She flinches quickly before becoming deathly still. He's not sure if she's hanging on or trying to remove him. He has no words. Doesn't know where to begin as her scent surrounds him. Perspiration and Kate.

It's intoxicating and terrifying.

He rests his head on her shoulder. Nestles his head against the side of hers, nuzzles into her hair and does the only thing he knows how. Breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out. His heart is in his throat and his stomach feels somewhere near the vicinity of the floor. Her name runs like a mantra through his mind.

_Kate, Kate, Kate..._

Tension crackles in the air. He can feel her jaw working up against his own. Opening slightly, closing quickly. Side to side as she worries her lip.

Apologies and defenses, declarations of love, surge forth but get stuck in his throat. His neurons, when his body is pressed up against hers and wisps of hair tickle about his ear, are not firing on all cylinders. His mouth feels as though it's filled with cotton and her body is tense. Too tense as he tightens his grip around her waist.

He needs her. Needs her to say something. To break the stalemate. Needs her to tell him it's all going to be okay. That they'll be okay. He knows it's impossible. It's so very far from okay. Still, he needs something to spur him into action. Anything. Because if she says nothing he is content to stand here, breathing her scent and reveling in whatever he can take. For as long as he can take it. He'll stand here and imprint her on his memory. Brand her on his soul in case he never gets the chance again.

The thought sends wetness to his lashes and a burning pain to his chest. He lets out a shuddering breath as a tear escapes his eyes and mingles with the perspiration in her hair.

It's enough to make her crack.

"Castle.." she whispers. It's harsh and not at all comforting but it spurs him into action.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Kate."

It's a litany and a prayer. He repeats it, over and over. Presses gentle lips to her neck, her soft earlobe and strong jawline. Reiterates his apologies until he feels her body slacken, the death grip on his forearm ease.

"So, so sorry...never meant to hurt you..love you. Love you so much. Kate. Kate."

"Rick.." she sobs, angling her face his direction.

Turning, until lips are on lips and teeth are pulling and tugging. Tongues tasting and dueling for entrance. Hands. Under his shirt, nails dragging along his spine, squeezing and clawing.

He's backs her up against the wall, thinking of nothing but something solid to brace their shaky legs and something tangible to prove that what's happening is real.

She pushes back, tangles and tugs her fingers through his hair. Brutal and rough. Wraps a leg around his own, and scraps her teeth along his jaw.

He doesn't want it to happen like this. Not desperate and savage. Not with her. Not with Kate. He'd always envisioned slow and sweet. An gentle exploration and revelation. Long and luxurious. Not quick and dirty.

But her hand is gripping at his crotch and her scent is filling his nostrils. Musky and feminine. Roughly, he shoves a hand down the front of her jeans, slides his hand down toward her center. He feels moist satin and hears a guttural moan as he drags it back up. He repeats the action as she struggles with the buttons on his slacks. She bites his ear and he pinches a nipple as his pants fall open, makes quick work of her own and wraps both legs around him, straddles his waist.

Nothing separates them but a layer of black cotton and navy satin. So close. So very close.

God, it's going to happen, he thinks. She shifts her hips and slides seductively up and down his body. His hips jerk and for a moment he hits her where she wants it. Her head falls back against the wall with a thump and his eyes slam open in shock.

The thud reverberates and breaks the moment. Eyes lock and twin gasps escape into the air. Her jaw is slack and open. The muscles in his arms relax, loosen his hold and her legs slide heavily to the floor.

"Kate.."

"Castle."

Not Rick. He slumps against the wall and runs a hand through his hair. Eyes her warily as he pulls up his pants and zips up his fly. Castle, not Rick. She's pulling away.

"We should...talk."

She gathers up her jeans, turns away and straightens her spine. When she turns back, her face is a mask. Stoic and grave.

"I need to know."

He shakes his head. He won't tell her. He can't. Not yet. He needs to figure out how. But there's no time. She's waiting and he's floundering. Every second he stalls, her eyes become more closed off. Her posture more rigid. He's losing her all over again.

Her eyes flag to murderous slits. She took the shake of his head as a denial and not a pause. A moment to gather himself. She's riled up, worn out and probably just as confused as he is. Probably more so. She has an added weight. The weight of knowing his secret but not details.

"Castle, you will tell me. It's _my_ case. _My mothers_."

Her voice cracks at the end and his heart breaks. He wants to tell her, to help her. To find her and her mother justice. But it's so dangerous and he has to get that point across first. She has to know what they are dealing with, explain about phone calls and shadowy figures before he lets her dive headfirst into the dragon's lair. He'll dive with her. Always.

He'd just like to wrap her up in a life preserver first. Make sure she knows the risks and the perils of not looking before you leap. It's too late to go back. She won't walk away from this case and he won't walk away from her. Their only option is in collaboration. Together.

"Kate, wait. You have to hear me out first."

Her nostrils flair and he can tell she's had just about enough of this conversation. She's in no mood for waiting.

"No Rick, I don't. You had no right. No right to keep this from me!"

"You don't understand, I had to, I couldn't.. just.. just wait a second, okay?"

She cuts him off with an icy stare, a sharp grinding of her jaw and a swift slap to his cheek.

"I've been waiting already. _You've _kept me waiting, apparently. How long have you been working on this? Without my knowledge? I put it away you know. I buried the case and put it away. I did it because you asked me to. Because I wanted to be more. I did it for _us_. And now this?"

Her words register slowly. He's noticed how she's been opening up. Noticed the tight lipped smiles and the gentle laugh she lets free more often. He'd noticed all the small things that pointed to her walls falling down but never truly connected it to the fact that she was actively working on it.

Suddenly her secret doesn't seem so hurtful. She'd been waiting until she was ready. Ready for _them. _He feels like an ass. He'd been so sure she was running. With every broken moment, every pause before the inevitable, she had been waiting not because she was afraid but because she was so very sure. She hadn't been waiting for answers to her case or for justice.

She's been holding back until it was their time.

He was the one who had been running. With every secret phone call and buried snippet of information he had run a little further away from her trust. With every doubt about her intentions when he'd suspected her secret, he'd sprinted further away. Ran off and into the rabbit hole she'd warned him about.

He'd run out of fear.

And though he wants to wait. Wants to be the calm one. The rational one. It's not how they work. Run and wait, push and pull. Their dance. He knows all the moves. Has practiced them so often with her that his response is instinctual.

"They're gonna kill you, Kate."

The grimace is on his lips before the words are finished leaving his mouth. Echos of her apartment and the night before the hangar, before Montgomery died, swirl in his mind and he knows what she's going to say before she opens her mouth.

"This is my life, Rick. Mine. I make the calls, not you! Now, get out."

He snorts, turns tail and runs.

He hightails it down to the _'Haunt',_ downs half a bottle of scotch and paces his office like a caged animal.

His mother was right. She'd been waiting. But she hadn't come around. Not today.

It's his turn to wait.

Maybe tomorrow.

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><p><strong>AN: So? What did you think? Are you going to kill me now? Should I let them make up? I'm thinking they need a bit more angst. It makes for great little scenes like the one up above. Also, yeah, better make this M rated now. Tell your friends! **

**You have Nicole to thank for the gym. Her Tumblr inspired me with all it's porny goodness. If you're underage, what the hell are you doing reading this anyway? If you're not offended by pretty pictures of sexy goodness, go follow her. She's new and needs lovings. **nroseg** ****nroseg** ******nroseg** Follow her. ****


	6. Chapter 6

**Just a quickie to tide you over for the day. I'm sure no one is opposed to a little more M. **

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><p>He's here. At the gym.<p>

She thought she'd been imagining it. His scent. That intoxicating combination of warm, sweet, arousing.

She wants to be mad. She is mad. But God, when he wraps his arms around her waist it sends a jolt of electricity straight to her toes. Startles her and it takes more effort than it should to keep her knees from turning to jello. More than she'd like. She's supposed to be mad and all she can think about is how good he smells. How good he had tasted just hours before.

She grips at his arms. Delights in the feel of his skin yielding to her nails. The slight infliction of pain the least he deserves.

His hot breath sends warm puffs of air to her ear, a warm pool of liquid to her core.

He says nothing but they've never needed words. Apologies and love. Like he's breathing them into her. Trying to resuscitate what was lost at the loft. What he'd thrown away when he'd thrown her on the desk. She grinds her jaw, bites on her lip to stop herself from turning into his arms. To stop herself from responding.

She's mad, damn it!

He'd betrayed her trust and ruined their moment. She'll be damned if she's the first to break the ice. But he sighs. Shakily and heavy. She feels him vibrating against her back and as she feels a patch of wetness against her ear she can't help but be moved.

This man. This strong and brave man. Who would move mountains or wait forever. Who would do it all for her. Or nothing if she'd prefer. This man who infuriates her and inflames her, pushes her and holds her steady. This man who is full of laughter and light is breaking before her and it slips out before she can stop it.

"Castle.."

And the dam breaks.

His lips are on her neck and his words are in her ear. "Sorry. So sorry. Love you, love. Kate."

He repeats it like a mantra. Like sacred writing that will magically take back all the hurt.

He might be right.

He has her. Has always had her. Before he knew who she was, his words had brought her out of a deep hole and an all consuming pain. His actions, of late, thrown her straight back in. He says "always" but the board proved otherwise. She wants to hit him. Berate him. Shelve him with the rest of her failed relationships. She wants to run and hide. She wants to be whole. She wants it all.

She wants him.

His mouth is warm and soothing. Hot and demanding. Needy, desperate. Lingering then rough. A conundrum.

"Love you," he breathes into her mouth. "Love you."

He's saying goodbye, she realizes. Saying goodbye in case this is it. Taking all he can get in case this is all they will have.

He backs her against the wall, crowding her. It makes it hard to breathe. It could be her heart though, not the close confines pressed between the brick wall and his broad chest.

He loves her. God, she loves him too. But they're not ready. This stupid man. He's ruining it. They'll never survive. Not like this.

She tangles her hands in his hair, intending to put a stop to this foolishness. But it's oh so soft and as if by it's own volition she finds her calf wrapped around his thigh. And then her hand is on his crotch and his in her jeans and she's moaning and she can't stop. Not when it feels so good.

She struggles with his button, her fingers shaky and unstable, sinks her teeth into his ear to get him to hold still for a moment. It's all she needs. Just a moment. She drags her teeth across his jaw and he steadies on a gasp, long enough for her to work the metal disc free and pull down his fly. His hand pinches a nipple and she needs to have him. Now. It's takes no time to discard her jeans. His strong arms, tensing, steadying her as she lolls to one side, are all the invitation she needs to wrap both legs around his waist and fall into his embrace.

He's hard and warm and doing exquisite things to her ass. Kneading, squeezing. Growling into her ear and nibbling down her neck. She rides her pelvis up and down his torso, making brief contact with what she desires. Her satin, his cotton, creates a rousing friction but they are fractured and broken and they never get the rhythm quite right.

Until they do.

Until the only protection is flimsy fabric and all it would take is a slip. It sends a jolt through them both. Shock and wonder. Reverence. It sends her head slamming back into the hard, brick wall and it sends awareness to her psyche.

Fuck. This is a mistake.

Her name is on his lips and the fear she hears, the care too, makes her panic. It brings back to her the very reason they are both here in the gym. His betrayal.

"We need to talk.."

It's the last thing she wants to do. There's now a heaping mound of shame piled atop the guilt of her secret. And the hurt of his.

She demands answers and he stalls. Shakes his head and looks away. Her body tenses and though she hears him reasoning, trying to get her to understand something, she's in no state to listen. Harsh words spew from her mouth and she slaps him hard and swift on the face.

She shares the truth too. How she'd been working on being better. For them. He looks surprised and it only irritates her further.

How can such an intuitive man be so dense? How can he not have noticed the change in her?

"They're gonna kill you, Kate."

She's done. She can't have this conversation again. She's so damn tired of running in circles. It's not two steps forward, one step back. It's one step forward, three steps back. Enough already.

"This is my life Rick. Mine. I make the calls, not you. Now, get out!"

He snorts. She rolls her eyes.

And then he ran.

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><p><strong>AN: Shout out to Someheartslove who not only took the time to review but to review every single chapter. It made my morning to wake up to an inbox full of notifications. Love to the rest of you who took the time as well. I think I may have missed a couple replies. I apologize. Mwah!**

**Nic, Nic, Nic - What would I do without your ass-kicking and porn peddling? Oh. Right. Overuse the comma and fade to black. :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Alas! Nobody pays me for this. I own nothing but my thoughts. Angsty and depressing as they are right now. Enjoy!**

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><p>He runs.<p>

Away from her hurtful words and her wounded eyes. He runs from the terror that she will demand answers, that he will supply them. He runs from a conversation they should have had months ago. He never should have left her during the summer. Should have pushed for the truth then. Should have fought for his right to be at her side. Because if he'd made his stand then, the last nine months might have gone much differently.

He runs straight to the 'Haunt' and into a bottle of scotch. Aged and smokey, it warms it's way down his throat. Slowly, it begins to numb his mind as he paces the basement. He could have gone home but there is something about the musty aroma, the wood paneling and the low yellow light of his office away from home, that soothes him.

He comes here when he needs to think. When writer's block is gnawing at him and her case has more pull than his outlines. The deadline for 'Frozen Heat' is looming and Gina has been hounding him for final edits. He comes to write. He comes when the nightmares rouse him, sweaty and terrified. When the cold space next to him in bed sends an aching need to his heart. He comes here a lot lately.

With every not so secret smile, with every intentional hand hold or hip nudge, the guilt has been eating him alive and he comes here to run.

Back and forth he paces, vacillating between hurt and anger. A heavy dose of sadness. He can't believe that they are back at this point again and with each gulp of the smooth, amber liquid his ire becomes a little more intense.

He'd always imagined once they both got over themselves and confessed their feelings it would be easier. That their love would be enough. But it's not. It just makes it worse. There are no secrets between them anymore, no excuses for half-truths and anything but honesty. The pain they inflicted upon one another in the gym was entirely avoidable. He should have eaten his fear and told her the full truth about the case, the threats and his fears for her safety.

She should have listened.

Damn, he hopes she will listen. When he's cooled off and she's ready.

She willcome back. He doesn't fear that. She was acting on adrenaline, fear and an ingrained response. He can't expect thirteen years of routine to be undone by a few confessions of love. But God, he hopes she will hear him out and at lest consider stepping away from the case. Because if she jumps into the gaping black hole that is her case, he has no choice but to fall with her. They are approaching the event horizon. Standing dangerously close to the precipice. He can feel the pull and is powerless to stop it. He wants to be able to hold her hand as they tumble over the edge; doesn't want to stand idly by and watch as she takes a flying leap into the chasm. He doesn't know if he has the strength to pull her back out. Not anymore. Not now that the hope he had clung to, the expectation that if they just said how they felt, everything would be all right.

It was stupid and romantic of him to believe it would transpire like that.

It doesn't mean he isn't still angry and hurt.

He slams down another shot of whiskey and waits.

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><p>She's fuming.<p>

And he ran.

She'd told him to get out and he'd gone. Logic tells her that it's her own damn fault but her heart is aching from it. Because he ran. Again.

She's not the only one who runs. She'd been ready that summer almost two years ago. His steadfast presence and dogged determination to make her open up had succeeded and her walls had been torn down. And then he'd run to the Hamptons.

The walls had begun to crumble with a wisecrack about being tall. His ability to know what she needed before she did, surprising her. The whole facade had fallen when he'd come to say goodbye after she'd shot Dick Coonan to save his life. Panic has risen into her throat, horror that he thought she'd didn't want him there or that she somehow blamed him. And so she'd told him she liked having him around. Liked having him pull her pigtails. For Kate Beckett that was akin to making a grand declaration. She'd opened up and it had showed. Everyone they met had a crack or wise words about how obvious their attraction was. After a lunatic had blown up her apartment, she'd cooked breakfast in his kitchen and thought she might like never to leave.

But then, whether it was his fear, with two failed marriages on his resume or her lack of practice with anything real, he ran again. Straight into the arms of Ellie Monroe. Of course, she'd played it off as nothing. As though she wasn't at all bothered. But the very next opportunity she'd had, she'd done some running of her own. Demming. What a mess that had been. An subconscious tit for tat that ended in disaster. A good man with hurt feelings, herself with a broken heart and Castle living it up with his ex for the summer. For the rest of the fall and through the winter.

It had taken the better part of a year to regain their momentum. To build back lost trust and new hopes. It had re-emerged stronger, clearer, deeper. But he was still dating Gina and she had found Josh and the timing had never been right. The final straw had come the night he came and begged for her to drop her mother's case.

If he'd answered truthfully when she'd asked what they were, she wonders if it all might have ended differently. Everything. She wonders if Montgomery might be alive. If she would still have a puckered scar between her breasts and a deep gash down her side. She wonders if they might already be living together. Planning a life instead of floating adrift. The rug had been pulled out from under them. A bullet had ripped into her chest and tore at her plans.

When she'd sent him away that night it had been out of anger. Sure, she was mad he had asked her to quit pursuing her mom's case, but mainly it was anger that he didn't have the guts to break the stalemate.

That she didn't.

Still doesn't.

She hadn't made matters any better by continuing the charade with the doctor. In the beginning, Josh was fun, easy and oh so good in bed. But she'd never felt much for him. She'd used him in the beginning to try and get over Castle, held onto him in the end because it was safe. Her guilt about her treatment of the perfect on paper, yet ultimately unwanted, doctor had caused her to keep him around even after the shooting. After she knew better and wanted more.

She'd placed him at her bedside like a guardian and protector. Because the physical pain was almost more than she could bear and her mind was addled by narcotics. And nightmares. Rick, bleeding out onto the grass. Rick, laying in the hangar. Rick, being carried to the grave in a mahogany casket. The thought of exerting any effort into the emotional aspect of what her heart needed had sent her chest tightening and her pulse racing. Sent nurses scrambling and monitors blaring.

In reality, Josh had been anything but her protector. He'd been retreating for months before the shooting. He'd held her hand and said all the right words but he was absent. Probably sensing her own withdrawal, he'd hung around out of a sense of duty rather than love or devotion.

It had turned her _true _champion into a vigilante.

It had sent Rick lurching into the void that is her case. Her life. She sent him there alone and unarmed. That he is willing to sacrifice his family, for her, both warms her heart and sends stabs of terror to her gut. Makes her so incredibly angry. That he would risk, for her, Alexis' life. That he could get himself killed and leave his girl exactly where she had been thirteen years ago.

It makes her want to smack him. Kiss him. Yell at him until he sees reason.

She hastily shrugs her jacket on. The air conditioning sends shivers up her spine as the perspiration cools and she grabs her boots, not bothering to put them back on. She doesn't feel mighty right now, doesn't feel deserving of four more inches and the happy self-satisfaction that the power heels bring. She wants to shrink into a small ball. Hide in the shadows. Hide from the stares she will surely get as she makes her way back out into the bull pen. She's a mess. She needs to run. She needs to hide.

She needs a friend.

* * *

><p>The M.E. is up to her elbows in blood and gore when Kate enters and flops herself down at the small and cluttered desk.<p>

"I know I keep a clean house, Beckett, but bare feet? Really?"

She looks to her bare feet, to the chipped and worn, linoleum tiles. To the small pools of blood in the vicinity of the slab. She's too tired to care. And she may have done some damage while she was abusing the bag. Stuffing her feet into the ridiculously high heels is the last thing she wants to do. She grabs a pair of booties from a box behind the desk. Better than nothing.

"Didn't seem important at the time."

Lanie puts down her scalpel, removes her surgical mask, her red smeared gloves. Raises an eyebrow and waits.

Kate gulps down a heaving breath of air, lets her gaze flit away from her friend before making her confession.

"He loves me, Lanie."

"And you're just figuring this out now?"

She hears the scoff and the laughter in her friends voice. There are no questions as to whom they are speaking of.

Okay, maybe she should be a little more specific.

"He told me, Lanes."

"Again?"

The M.E.'s mouth clamps shut and a look of horror flashes across her face. They haven't talked about that day. About what the writer had said or what had happened in the back of the bus.

"What I meant by that..er..yeah. Never mind."

Her friend's eyes cloud over as she removes her gloves, stalls and washes her hands. She comes to sit on the corner of the desk. Looks to Kate expectantly but says nothing more.

Kate realizes she hasn't spent much time with her best friend as of late. In her quest to avoid all things "Castle" she has subconsciously cut her dearest friend out of her life. Rick, being the topic most likely to come up during late night movie marathons or martini binges. She threw up the wall to protect herself from him and consequently barred anyone else from entering.

"I mean, I remember the shooting. What he said. And I told him. And then..Oh God, Lanie, it all went to hell."

Her hands are shaking. The scene from the day of the shooting replaying in her mind. Over and over. The unexpected and piercing burn of the bullet. The rush of air escaping her lungs as he dove at her and took her to the ground. Hoping to save her. Just a second too late.

How very, 'them'.

_I love you. I love you, Kate._

She's in his office and her breathing steadies. Evens out and a smile graces her lips for a moment. A brilliant shining moment when her secret had been out and his hasn't. Blissful oblivion. His mouth on hers and her heart in her throat. So close, just an inch. An inch to the left or right and none of it would have happened. The board would have stayed dark.

Missed it by _that_ much.

_I'm sorry. So Sorry. Kate._

Her traitorous body. A terrible mistake. Not now. Not like this. But oh, so good. A thump to the head. Sense returning and then retreating just as fast. Her stupid brain stuck in detective mode. In victim mode. Unable to see past the anger and through to the fear clouding his eyes as he tries to speak. Unable to see past the rage that was once again becoming a fiery inferno. Stupid man and his stupid love. He has a family to think about.

_Get out._

"..you with me? Kate?"

Awareness slowly returns. The flashbacks retreating to the part of her psyche she has, mostly, learned to keep hidden. Deep breaths, just like Doctor Burke taught her. In and Out. Focus on the good times. Happy thoughts. It's just so hard to distinguish between the two sometimes. All of her recent and most treasured memories are wrapped up and tangled with the most terrible.

"Yeah. I...sorry. Got lost there for a minute."

"You don't have to do this alone, you know?"

She sighs. This is what everyone keeps telling her. Can't they see the risk?

"Lanie..."

"Kate."

She rolls her eyes and thinks maybe coming down here wasn't her brightest idea. Her best friends voice is serious. Means business. Castle's not the only one who she's been running from or pretending like nothing is amiss. It's well overdue though, been festering long enough. The seams are fraying, hastily sutured wounds reopening. It's time to start over. Realign the jagged edges and carefully start over. Repair the damage caused by too many band-aids and not enough care.

"I'm sorry."

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, you don't get to give a blanket apology and pretend like we are okay. I love you, Kate, but cutting me out once you left rehab? Cold, girl. Cold."

"I needed space."

God. It sounds pathetic even to her own ears.

"Did you ever think about what your friends might have needed? We watched you die, honey. We watched you die. You died."

God. The guilt is piling up thick and fast. She deserves it though. She can't imagine watching her best friend die. Can't imagine not being there to help her recover. It hits her in a sudden rushing moment. Clarity. She'd been so very egotistical. Justifiably perhaps, but non the less, so very selfish. She'd been so wrapped up in her own pain, she never gave a second thought to the pain she might be causing everyone around her.

A tear slips down her cheek, lands with a small splash on an open autopsy report. Cause of death: acute hypoxia originating with crushing asphyxia. She knows the feeling. She swats at her eyes with the back of a thumb. Rubs over the marred report where her tear has blemished the print. Made the ink bleed. She feels sick.

"Oh. Oh God, I know. And you saved me. I'm sorry. I was so selfish."

"Yeah, you were."

It's not said unkindly. Just a confirmation of the facts. Still, it's not pleasant.

"Can you forgive me?"

Lanie makes her wait. Turns away as if having a hard time conceding. A beat longer than is comfortable. Long enough for the gravity of what she's done to set in. What she must have done to Castle, if this is what she's done to her friend.

Finally, a smile breaks out on her friend's face. Sincere and perhaps a little smug.

"Already have. Long time ago."

The grin is there still. Self-satisfied and very 'Lanie'.

"So this was?.."

"A timely wake-up call. You've imagined yourself in my shoes. Now imagine yourself in Castle's."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"I gotta go."

Lanie gathers her into a binding embrace. She's needed this hug for a long time. Her friend is warm and solid. Smells like bleach and Shalimar. Rubbing alcohol. It's strangely comforting. Brings back memories of nights spent in the morgue chatting over pizza and a dead body.

They really need to get themselves lives, Kate thinks, as a chuckle escapes her mouth and she disentangles herself.

"I'm gonna make this up to you, Lanie."

"Yeah, yeah. Go get your man."

That's exactly what she is going to do. She's gonna go get her man. Enough standing on the sidelines.

It's time to dive in.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, that chapter got away from me completely. It's about double my usual chapter length. **

**Kate just wouldn't leave me alone until she was ready to make up with Castle. Which is annoying because I had this whole sexy scene for the next chapter in my head and now it's not gonna work. Never fear though, I'm sure she knows what she's doing. Me? Not so much.**

**Lots of reviews for the last chapter. Lots of warm and fuzzies for me. Thank you all! Maybe that's why Kate was so loud and obnoxious in my mind? **

**Nicole: As always, all the imaginary monies! However; no soup for you!**


	8. Chapter 8

He's drunk.

Not smashed. Not fall down, stumble home drunk. But he's drunk all the same. And not the happy kind of inebriated. Not buy a round for the bar because you like their faces, sing some karaoke, kiss a pretty girl, drunk. No, he's firmly entrenched in self-loathing, second-guessing, everything's depressing and why do I bother, drunk.

His head swims, like there's just a little too much fluid inside his skull. It makes clear thoughts difficult, makes his mind replay everything he'd aimed to forget. It makes it hard to evaluate his situation. It's like being underwater. The ambient sounds from upstairs are muffled and yet amplified. He's beginning to understand where the expression, "drowning in a bottle," comes from.

The pacing is wearing thin and his strides are becoming less sure with each swig from the bottle. It feels like he's been waiting forever. He stumbles and his toes claw into the long fibers of the shag area rug.

Sighing, he replaces the cap on the bottle. Mentally berates himself for yielding to the lure of liquid anesthesia. He puts the bottle back on a shelf, paces back to the heavy oak desk. Lurches and staggers a little before slumping heavily in the chair.

A quick check of his phone tells him it's been only an hour and a half since he'd stormed out of the gym.

His head falls into his hands. His hands to the desk. He's sick of waiting.

So goddamned sick and tired.

* * *

><p>She's been in tumult since leaving the morgue. Has been met with obstacles both of her own doing and bad luck.<p>

She had intended running straight to his apartment, but her barefoot exploit to the morgue had done a number on her feet. The exertion in the gym had left her feeling less than fresh and she figured the extra half-hour or so would give Castle time to calm down before she went to confront him.

She had intended a quick shower. To grab some flat shoes and to get back to his loft. But the warm spray made her linger longer than necessary. It eased her achy muscles and soothed her swollen feet. Hair already limp and bedraggled, first from sweat now steam she had decided she could afford the extra time to wash her long curls. It took another twenty minutes she hadn't planned on to dry.

The soft waves had framed her face but highlighted the dark circles under her eyes. The red rims surrounding them. She'd decided she could afford another few minutes to do some damage control. Ten minutes. To reapply her makeup. Sultry eyes, pouty lips. Waterproof mascara. Just in case. A dab of Fracas. A scent she wouldn't normally choose but she has to admit it's grown on her. It might have everything to do with the fact that he'd said he liked it.

She had tried the loft first. A quick fifteen minute walk from her place, she didn't bother with her car. She arrived at the lobby with her heart in her throat and apologies on her lips. She'd been ready to grovel if necessary, beg for his forgiveness. But Eduardo, the doorman, had swiftly informed her that Mr Castle had not returned. Hadn't been seen since he's slipped out hours ago. He hadn't taken the car, if that was any help. It wasn't really. New York has plenty of cabs, ample public transportation and Castle has a car service on speed-dial.

Still, she took a few minutes to exchange pleasant conversation, to thank the man for his information.

With a sigh and an impending sense of doom she'd thought of Remy's. Perhaps comfort food is where he had headed. A chocolate shake and curly fries. His favorite. A light rain fell as she strode towards the diner and it did nothing to lift her spirits. Twenty minutes wasted drying her hair, another twenty walking, as she quickly scanned the diner and noted his absence. Yet another five, as she exchanged hellos with their regular waitress. Assured her that they'd be there in the next few days for lunch.

She hoped to hell she was telling the truth.

Feeling slightly desperate and beginning to lose nerve, her last option had been the 'Haunt'. She'd never taken Castle to be a 'drink your troubles away' kind of person; but then again, neither was she. The bottle left abandoned by her tub was evidence that sometimes desperate times called for desperate measures.

These were certainly desperate times.

Suddenly, she knew with a certainty that the bar is where he would be. Down in his office. With the rich wood and the smokey ambiance. The expensive Scotch and the overstuffed leather chairs. A fitting scene for his writers mind.

Something Hemingway would be proud of.

* * *

><p>The bartender greets her with a nod of recognition and a tilt of his head toward the stairs leading to the basement.<p>

It's invitation enough. She's wasted enough time with pleasantries.

She's nervous as she quietly makes her way down the stairs. Resolute too. She is determined this conversation will not go how they usually do. Half truths and obstruction. Avoidance.

A loose tread creaks as she reaches the bottom. It announces her presence and yet he doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge her presence in any way. This doesn't bode well, she thinks.

"Castle," she calls, noting the discarded tumbler on the bar and the tang of Scotch in the air. The two-thirds empty bottle on a shelf. It's out of place amongst the mixers and decorations.

He's drunk.

She takes a deep breath. Prepares herself as best she can. 'Drunk Castle' isn't someone she's familiar with.

On a few occasions she's seen him tipsy, sporting a happy buzz. In all those instances the mood had been festive. A broken case deserving a celebratory libation. A soothing red over a shared meal. A cold beer in the break-room before heading home. She likes him tipsy. He lets his guard down and his mouth says things his mind would never allow under normal circumstances. Suggestive things. Highly inappropriate things. Things, she herself, has been imagining for years.

But drunk, depressed and hiding behind the bottle drunk, all she has to fall back on for that is dealings with her father in his worst days after her mother's death. The occasional intoxicated suspect. She's doubts he will be belligerent like the perps she has had the pleasure of locking up, hopes he won't be the dispirited, shell of a man, that her father had always turned into when lost in a bottle.

He raises his head. Eyes her with suspicion.

"Go away," he says. Gruff. In no mood to talk.

Shit. She's wasted too much time. Should have run down here immediately. Blisters and cracked soles, be damned. While she has spent the last hour and a half fretting and firming up her resolve to go get him, it seems he has been firming up his resolve to simply forget.

"No."

He raises an eyebrow slightly. Disbelief. A diminutive gesture of scorn.

"Beckett. Go home. I'm not doing this."

The use of her last name sends her reeling. Shoots deep pangs of hurt to her chest. It's rarely heard on the job anymore, never in private. Not now. Not for a long time.

And what does he mean by, "not doing this."?

Now? _Ever?_

Seems there's a little belligerent in him after all.

Mainly though, she notes the clouded eyes and the deep, smokey rings below. He looks tired. Weary. Exhausted and spent. He looks ten years older than his age. He looks horribly reminiscent of her father a decade ago. She wants to go to him, comfort him. Sooth him and brush away the smudges with light touches and butterfly kisses.

She takes a tentative step towards him and his eyes glint in warning. Anger and hurt. Like a wounded animal, caged in and ready for fight or flight. A flash of guilt passes and it stabs her in the heart.

Quickly, he shutters his emotions, his face becoming a blank mask. Emotionless. No smart-ass reply. No crass joke or deflection. Nothing to raise her spirits or return them to their usual standing. This isn't their customary game at all. He's taken his pieces off the table.

"Go home," he repeats. It's more of a growl than a request.

She came here for resolution, to break the stalemate. Instead, he is forfeiting. She won't allow it. They've reached endgame. It's time to put up or shut up.

She takes another step. Like she wishes he had last summer. She's within a few feet of the desk, can smell his aftershave and sweat. Can smell the sweet and woody aroma of Scotch on his breath as he huffs at her to leave.

"No."

She's not leaving. Not when things are being left unsaid. When their relationship is teetering on the brink of disaster. Not when he smells so damn good.

He snorts. A derisive chuff of laughter. He stands up, chest heaving, hands on hips. His body language daring her to speak. To deny him again.

"Something funny you'd like to share?" she speaks, tries for light, a little snarky.

She's trying to tamp down her growing anger. Give him time, space. A little leeway considering the amount of alcohol he's imbibed. But that little snort of laughter irritates and sets her on edge. The words come out a little breathless due to the proximity to his chest and a little aggravated due to the sneer on his face.

"Why are you here?" he asks, sounding hurt. Defensive. And frustrated.

"Rick, I..I'm just so sorry."

"Sorry isn't gonna cut it, Kate. Not this time."

He walks away. Past her and towards the stairs. Anxiety, fear, a heaping dose of panic shoots through her veins. He's not going to run. Not this time. And neither is she.

She quickly strides to his side and grabs his arm, spins him around so he's facing her and her pleading face. Hopes he comprehends the true apology written over it. His reflects only a dull pain. She misses the clear and sparkling, baby blues. Misses the mirth and the light. The quirking lips and the boyish smile.

"Kate, don't. Not now."

Again he turns away and rage boils in her belly.

After all the times he has promised "always", all the times he has proven it, it is now that he chooses to give up. Now. When she's ready and open. When she's willing to give them a chance. Now that she is able. When she's ready for always.

And so she hits him. Hard.

A swift shove in the shoulder as he turns away. The heel of her palm connects firmly with his solid form, sending waves of pain up her arm. It seems to do the trick though. His eyes are back on her in an instant, the fire returning. The cloud is lifting and while ire is not the emotion she'd like to see in his eyes, it's something.

"You wanna fight, Kate? Is that what you're here for?"

He's crowding her, his breath coming in hot puffs against her head. The flat shoes give her a distinct disadvantage in their current position, so she squares her shoulders and puffs up her chest. Meets his eyes with steely determination.

"I'm not here for a fight Rick. I'm here for you."

Her voice is high-pitched, indigent and slightly needy. She'd been going for confident and strong. She'd hoped she could convey the importance of _him_ in that sentence. To her ears, it ended up more akin to a childish whine.

"Are you?" he asks, eyes searching, trying to gauge her true intentions.

That hurts.

That he doesn't trust her. That he still thinks she's here about the case and not about the state of their relationship. That he thinks she can just brush aside what almost happened in the gym. In his loft. A hundred times before. She knows she hasn't earned his trust when it comes to the case. But she thought they had at least made some headway when it came to personal issues. Maybe he's holding on to more anger about her confession that she had at first thought.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Castle," she declares angrily, backing up. Away from his looming presence and his steely gaze.

Heavily, she slumps into one of the plush armchairs.

Honestly, she doesn't know what is left to say. It's all been said. Just in the wrong order. Or the wrong context. The wrong situation or the wrong time.

With pinched eyebrows, he runs a hand through his hair. Wild spikes form, it leaves her aching to smooth them down. To run her hand over his brow, behind the shell of his ears. Her fingers twitch, her arm extending as if by it's own faculty. So close. She could grab his arm and pull him on top of her. Use her police training against him.

Abruptly, as though coming to a decision he pivots away from her and starts pacing. Her hand drops back to her side. Too late. If only she'd moved a little faster.

His feet leave matted tracks in the plush, cream colored rug as he makes his rounds. Back and forth, working off the nervous energy. Or maybe he's just avoiding her. Avoiding the confrontation. She's about to speak, anything to break the tension that surrounds them. It suffocates and it's stifling.

Her mouth is open, fresh apologies in her throat, when he hushes her with a pointed look.

"I want you to tell me what I should have done."

He spreads his hands, a tired and exhausted gesture.

"Obviously, I fucked this up, Kate. But tell me, please. What should I have done when a stranger called and told me you weren't safe?"

He strides to the desk, picks up his phone and points it at her. Punches it in her direction.

"I waited by this thing for three months. Every time it rang, every tone that I had a new message, I was filled to the brim with hope. I was sure that this time_,_ it would be you. Sure that you wouldn't cut me out of your life. I was sure that you loved me. I couldn't understand why you wouldn't just call.."

His eyes get large, as if not intending to let that detail slip, a glossy sheen forms at the corners and it hits her square in the gut. She's hurt him so terribly and yet he is still here, still willing to try. To explain his side of the story.

Kate gulps down the lump in her throat and nods tenuously. Acceptance, agreement. She doesn't understand either. Maybe she'll never be able to explain what she'd been thinking.

His hands shake and he works his jaw while choosing his next words. His fingers curl and tighten on the phone, gripping the hard plastic like he's choking it. Like he wishes it doesn't exist. He sits on the corner of the desk with his head cocked to one side. Gauging her reasons for being here, she thinks.

The familiar gaze returns for a second when he decides. Warmth. Trust. Love. Just a split-second.

Before his wrath returns. Before his pain bubbles up and spews over the edge.

"So you return. You throw me a lifeline. You tell me you have a wall and that your mother's case is in the way. You tell me in a roundabout way that we are on the same page, that I just have to wait a little while longer. That's what I do, right?" he sneers. "You tell me that we have to solve the case first. And God.. Kate, that day I felt like I could breathe again. For the first time since that bullet burned it's way through your chest, I could breathe. We had a plan. We were going to do it together. I would have waited a lifetime."

She nods, still not knowing where it all went wrong.

Why he says, "waited".

Past tense.

Why would he chose to do this without her. This is what hurts her the most, that he chose to go it alone, after that day on the swings.

She just needs to know why.

"Tell me, Kate," he spits, standing again, returning to his path on the rug. "What should I have done when a man called after we'd visited Halstead? What should I have done when they told me you'd be dead if you didn't walk away? That the only way to keep you alive was to keep you away from the case. Please, tell me what I should have done different because I'm in over my head here and I need my partner. But if my partner is involved... she dies."

And now she knows.

She feels sick. Oh God, this poor man.

It's bad enough for her. To wonder if the sniper is still hunting her down. To have that thought clattering around in her mind as she straps on her piece every morning, as she first steps out onto the sidewalk.

But he knows. Knows for a fact that if she makes any wrong move, she's dead. That they will try again and this time they will succeed. He has lived with this for six months and she didn't even give him the courtesy of her own truth. If she had confessed in the hospital, even on the swings, everything could have been different. At the very least if she had confessed and nothing else had changed, he would have at least had the knowledge that she loved him. Loves him. The knowledge that this dangerous quest to save her life was not in vain.

He looks to the phone in disgust. As though it's touch burns him. As though it's the root of all evil. Maybe it is. It's been the genesis of enough misunderstandings between them. The bearer of bad news, the silent reminder of her rejection over the summer. He throws it at the wall and it connects with a solid thump. A resounding snap as it hits the floor and breaks with a satisfying clatter.

"I can't lose you again," he says, falling to his knees. Falling at her feet.

"I won't," he states with conviction. His eyes are both pleading and full of warning. Daring her to push about the case. Begging her to forgive him.

"You won't," she weeps quietly, sliding off the chair to join him on the floor.

"You won't."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: You should all go grovel at Nicole's feet. I fretted over this for three days. If not for her this would probably still be languishing on my computer, somewhere around it's twelfth re-write. Love ya, babe! Now go forth and fill up my inbox...**

**Please?**


	9. Chapter 9

"You won't", she breaths as his arms slide around her waist.

"You won't," she repeats, cupping his face in her palms and leaning back so she can look at him. So he can see her face. Her truth.

He believes her. No questions about the case are waiting on the tip of her tongue. There is no anger spilling forth from her eyes. Just love. Pure and unadulterated affection. A deep sorrow. Shame, that he wants to erase.

"You can't keep chasing this Rick."

"Kate.."

"I can't lose you, either. I won't."

He nods. Murmurs tender reassurances into her hair. She's right. They'll find another way. They'll figure out what to do about the case later. They'll figure out everything later.

"You won't," he assures, leaning back onto his heels, taking her with him. "You won't."

Right now, it's time.

Now her lips are grazing across his. Her hands roaming gently at his waist. The kiss is sweet. The sweetest he's ever known. Smooth, yet urgent. Full of promise and hope. A long held secret, finally set free. A butterfly emerging from it cocoon. He thinks he could kiss this woman forever.

And then it's not.

The touch of her lips is abruptly fierce. Needy and passionate.

Somehow he's on his back, legs stretched out across the rug. She's straddling him and it's every fantasy in glorious technicolor. One hand splayed across his chest, the other tangling in his hair, Kate is sending delightful vibrations of tension throughout his body. Nerves and heat colliding, he struggles to keep things slow. Struggles not to repeat the mistakes of earlier. Struggles not to lose control, not to match her mouth in it's insistence and carry it even further.

She hisses on a breath, deepens the kiss with her tongue. Retreats and drags her teeth along his jaw. She's pulling him ever so gradually over the edge. He wants to slow down and savor the moment. Wants to bask in the newness. But her hands are under his shirt and her nails are dragging up his abdomen and if she doesn't slow down, it will be over before it's begun.

He rolls them over and traps her between his legs. Chuckles to himself that she's not beating him for this. Or pulling her gun. Her breath comes in short pants, her eyes are dark pools of wonder. Liquid and mischievous. Loving and soft, all at once.

She's breathtaking.

And she's his.

"Kate."

It's a whisper, a prayer and question. Wrapped up in a vow.

She smiles. Waits. Runs her hands up and down the long column of his spine. Her thumb nails tickle and tease the ridges along his ribs. He cups her face in his hands, strokes below her eyes with the pads of his thumbs. Along her high cheekbones and strong jaw.

"Kate, I don't want to get this wrong."

She nods, tears forming in her eyes. One traitorous bead breaking free and leaving a trail down her cheek.

"It's too important," she agrees. "But.."

Her hands dip lower, cup his rear and lazily stroke toward his thighs. He dips his mouth to her face and kisses the moisture away.

"But?" he rasps.

"But I'm tired of waiting to start my life. Our life. I want to live it, Rick."

"Kate..are you.."

"Just love me," she interrupts with a hand to his jaw. "Just love me."

He says nothing, but she's not worried. Not with the smile that breaks out over his face. The way his stubble scrapes her palms as it becomes ear to ear. A true 'Castle' grin. One she hasn't borne witness to in months. Years maybe. Not a smile like this. It's pure joy. It's reverent and it's adoring.

And then it's downright lascivious.

"Katherine Beckett, the things I am going to do to you," he leers before slowly lowering his mouth to hers.

It slow and it's gentle and it's sweet. But she doesn't want sweet. She wants to feel alive.

Hissing, she slides her tongue against his lips, nibbles at his lips. And she hears him groan in restraint.

"I'm not gonna break, Rick." she says against his mouth.

He allows her tongue entry, lets hers duel with his own for a moment before pulling back and slowing their movements down again. She sighs inwardly, wondering if he's still not certain she will stay. Wondering if he's savoring the moment in case it's the only one he gets. She needs to get his attention.

She pulls back, eyes him with a sparkling gaze. A somewhat lewd leer.

"Do it like you mean it or I'll find someone who will." she grins.

It's an empty threat, but he freezes all the same. She sees the fire in his eyes, the thinly grasped control. Smiling, she slowly unclasps her buttons while he looks on. The fabric falls away to reveal her torso, the deep purple lace of her bra. His breath quickens but he makes no move. He's transfixed. She dips her hands to his waist. Works on his belt while her teeth work at her lower lip. His arms are tense and flexing around her. Still he makes no movement.

The sound of his zipper sliding open snaps the last thread of his tightly held restraint.

He growls her name. And then follows it with a concise, "Fuck it."

And she laughs because this is the man she wants. The man she knows. The cocky and passionate man that she fell in love with. But the laugh is quickly turned to a gasp as he roughly pulls her jeans down and around her ankles. As he shucks his own, along with his shirt, and presses his body down and against hers. As the hard lines of his body meet with the softer lines of her own. As the rigid bulge in his shorts nudges insistently at her thigh.

She had enjoyed a brief moment where she thought, "Victory."

Now? She can't think at all.

She sucks in a deep breath, staggering for a second. He takes it as his opportunity to prove to her just how much he has been holding back.

His tongue surges to her lips, his mouth sealing them together. It's quick and it's sloppy and then he's off to find somewhere else to explore. She lets out a desperate moan as heat pools between her thighs, as he trails down her neck, nibbles around the edge of her bra, drags his thumbs across her nipples. They are so hard they hurt. Taut and aching for his attention. He touches them again, gentler this time and pain becomes pleasure. Sensation sizzles and travels like wildfire. Deep in her veins, aching to her core.

There is a sudden awareness that she needs him. In her. Around her. Filling her.

She's dated many. Slept with most. She'd always wondered if she was missing something. Wondered why it never quite lived up to the hype of romance novels or daytime dramas.

She had been missing something, but now she knows.

It was him.

She arches into him. Wet and ready. Eager for their underwear to be gone, to be skin against skin. For him to be in her. Filling her.

"Rick," she moans, raking her nails down his sides until she reaches his underwear. "Please."

"Never one to argue with a lady," he says, his voice gruff and gravelly.

Quickly, he removes his boxers and waits with eager and hungry eyes as she removes her bra. Two hands cup her breasts and he lays kisses down her abdomen, back up to her breasts for a taste. He traces the surgery scar with his thumb. Firm, not gentle like she'd expected he would be. Like he's testing it's strength.

"Perfect," he whispers.

Down her torso again, back up. Gently nuzzling at the bullet wound. Each time a little lower. It's exquisite torture.

She makes a move to get rid of her panties, to grant him access. He stops her with a quick swat and pins her roaming hand to the rug.

"Allow me," he mumbles into her crotch, taking a moment to suck on the lace, bite his teeth gently into her flesh.

It feels good. God, it feels so good; but she wants him inside her. Now.

"Castle," she warns.

The use of his last name must be enough to garner his attention because his head pops up and he's sporting a devilish grin.

"Mmmm?" he questions.

"Now," she commands.

He needs no further invitation.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It was either this or how "human origin is being traced back to a worm fossil in Canada. ffs"**

**(Obligatory grovelling for reviews goes here.)**


	10. Chapter 10

**You dirty little readers. I add a little smut and suddenly my inbox overflows! Love it! And you're gonna love this. ;)**

* * *

><p>She's perfect.<p>

She's all smooth lines and soft curves and she's perfect. He's committed to spending the rest of his life memorizing each and every one. Imprinting her on his memory and branding her in his heart.

Her soft breasts and the gently curved line of her hips. The fall of her dark hair, fanned out and curled in upon itself. A delightful contrast to the white of the rug. The dip and rise of her sternum and the way the low incandescence of the basement office plays off the gentle shadowing of her ribs.

The long, silvery scar down her side. Evidence of a life saved. A life almost lost. The puckered and still angry looking bullet wound. He makes a show of nuzzling her breasts as he surreptitiously lays his ear to her chest. Just a moment. To confirm that her heart beats below. Something he's been aching to do since she bled out in his arms.

The beat is steady. Strong. Perhaps a little accelerated.

It's stupid but he needed it. Needed to hear it with his own ears, feel it with his own hands, see it with his own eyes.

It hurts. To look at her scars and realize just how close they had come to the brink. But now they make her who she is. The woman he loves.

And so, she is perfect.

She huffs quietly and he realizes he has voiced that thought out loud. He hears the disbelief. Perhaps she's lacking the confidence she deserves. Has earned. She should never be ashamed of those scars. But he senses she's in no mood for tender and slow. For reassurances or coddling.

More than senses. Her little threat of finding someone else may have clued him in.

Wicked woman.

He smiles as he makes his way down her body, as her scent engulfs his consciousness. Distinctly her. Musk and lavender. Vanilla and spice. A heady combination of body wash and arousal.

As his nose grazes the lace of her panties, he realizes it's not a new fragrance. He's smelled it before. When he's leaned in a little closer than might be professionally advised. When he's invaded her space. And then pushed a little further.

During late-night research marathons at her desk and over coffee in a Crown Vic.

A night in an alley when she belonged to someone else. On a couch in L.A. when she _still_ did. So much time wasted.

More recently, when he delivered a dog and held her hand. As she sat on his couch and watched his mother re-write his childhood.

It's stronger and more defined now, but he's smelled it before. Like a repressed memory suddenly surging to the surface.

Wicked woman.

So much time wasted. He'll have to bring it up at a later date.

Maybe she'll punish him. He thinks he might like that.

Right now, he needs to taste her.

He sucks at the lace separating him from where he wants to be and tastes her for the first time. Bites gently at her flesh and grins as she angles her hips up toward his mouth.

His name is on her lips and the growl in her voice doesn't go unnoticed. Patience it seems, is not a virtue Kate possesses right now.

When she demands action, he needs no further encouragement.

With two hands he rolls the scrap of lace down her thighs. Lets his fingers trail a path down her legs. He stops to tickle the back of her knees and receives an eyebrow in response.

Right. No time for dilly-dallying. She'll be virtue free by the time he's done with her.

He throws the panties somewhere in the vicinity of the small bar and uses one hand and his toes to wriggle out of his boxers.

He's positioned at her entrance. Feels the heat, the moisture as he rubs up against her folds. It's like satin. Like liquid silk. He could write a sonnet describing the sensations, the warmth. The feeling of being home. Except he's not quite there yet and judging by the way her legs are insistently digging into the back of his thighs, he thinks perhaps his words are not what she's interested in right now.

"Hey Ricky..." she laughs, breathy and maybe slightly agitated. Definitely aroused. Amused and affectionate. "Anybody home?"

He realizes the amount of time he's been musing. The time he's been squandering. He realizes he'd like to wipe that little smirk off her face.

Musing, he thinks on a chuckle. How appropriate.

"Not yet, but I'm about to be," he grins and enters her in a single, long stroke.

They still. They are breathless. Astonished.

"Wow," they breathe in unison.

"Yeah.." he laughs, pulling out a little, settling back in.

Home indeed.

She shifts her hips under him and her legs rise. Smooth skin gliding up the back of his calves, her hands coming to rest in his hair. Pulling and tugging and he's not thinking anymore. She bites his shoulder and he licks down her throat. She sucks on his earlobe and he rewards her with a long draw out, a swift thrust in.

She lets out a string of expletives, dirty and raw.

Yes, he thinks. Exactly.

He holds her hands above her head and her fingers grip like steel around his wrists. It's penance and it's possession. He strokes deep and fast and she contracts around him. Pulls him deeper. Almost to the edge. Close enough for him to open his eyes and look upon her face. Eyes closed, face taut with exertion.

No, he thinks. Not like this.

"Kate," he hushes, slowing his pace. Regaining some control. "Look at me."

And she does.

It terrifies him. Because he's never seen love like this.

It sets him free. Because he also sees acceptance. And fearlessness.

She is unflinching. Unbelievable. Unforgettable.

Extraordinary.

He brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and whispers in her ear, "Like this..."

He resumes his motion. Slow and languid this time. He lets his mouth travel to all the spots he missed earlier. He tastes salt in the dip of her clavicle, where perspiration collects. He tastes mint on her breath as he sucks her lip gently into his mouth. As he releases it and repeats the action. The bitter tang of Fracas as he nibbles behind her ear. He savors her.

His fingers brush lazily down the curve of her spine as she arches her back. He relishes in the feeling of her body pressed against his. Skin on skin.

"Love you," she breathes into his neck.

"I know," he assures. "Me too."

As they move together and as they watch each other, the emotional connection almost outweighs the physical sensations. Every touch is magnified. Every taste and every sound.

He rolls her out from under him, switches their positions so they are laying side by side. Their legs scissored together, and their arms tangled around each other. Physically and mentally entwined, their eyes lock. It holds them steady. And then thrusts them over the edge.

Release catches them by surprise.

"Holy shit!" she cries. It's half a moan, half sob.

He grunts and releases inside her. It's liberating. It's heaven. He bows his head and rests in the crook of her neck.

"Something like that," he finally agrees. When he again has the ability to form sentences.

They lay side by side for a while. Until their bodies cool and the rush wears off. She traces patterns on his arms. He twirls her hair around his fingers.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," he murmurs.

She raises an eyebrow. Smirks.

"I bet..."

He tugs on the curl that's wrapped around his index finger.

"This," he says, tickling her nose with the ends of a strand. Loving the way her nose crinkles, loving the laugh lines that form at the corner of her eyes. Loving that he puts them there.

"And the other?"

Oh, he likes post-coital, Kate. She's coy, a little shy. She has a teasing glint in her eye and a wide grin that she tries valiantly to smother. She's adorable.

"Oh. Yeah..Well, I mean, that too. Of course!"

He sputters a little and feels his face color.

It's slightly ridiculous but the ability to be able to lie here with her, to be allowed to fiddle with her hair and kiss her as he pleases, it almost means more than the act of making love to her.

Maybe it does mean more.

Because the two of them sleeping together has always seemed inevitable. It's the outcome that he's never been able to imagine. To dare imagining.

"So, um.. Castle?

"Mm?"

"We're naked."

"We are," he grins, dipping his head to kiss a breast. "Yes, we are. We should be naked more often."

He wonders why she's stating the obvious.

"Castle?" she tries again, an amused tone laced with a little annoyance.

Nothing has changed.

"Mm?" he says again, distracted and using his tongue to toy with a nipple.

"We're in your office. At the "Old Haunt". Naked. With the door unlocked."

Oh. Oh!

"Shit!"

"We should probably.."

She gestures to the articles of clothing strewn about, makes to untangle herself and rise.

Quickly, he leans in and captures her mouth with his own. Steadies her with a hand on her hip. Another in her hair. One last taste. Before the moment has to end. This perfect moment.

He uses his index finger to raise her gaze to his own. Holds her chin in his hand.

"Love you."

"I know," she assures. "Me too."

* * *

><p>They fumble around for a while.<p>

Retrieving lost articles of clothing and arranging them back in place. Catching each others eye and sharing small smiles. Hastily looking away as they realize what they've done.

What they've begun.

She's not worried.

Well, maybe she's a little worried.

She pulls on her jeans, buttons them up and begins pacing the office. Over to the bookshelves. To the bar and behind the chair. She scans the room. The floor and his desk.

"Kate?"

His hand is on her shoulder and he turns her around. Turns her so that she faces him.

"What's wrong," he asks.

There's a slight hint of panic behind the concerned gaze.

And she can't help it. As much as she wants to reassure him. To once again confirm her love and calm his nerves; she just can't help the grin that breaks out on her face. The laugh that bubbles to the surface.

Because she finds what she's been searching for as she looks past his shoulder and toward the top shelf of the bar.

Her panties are slung around the neck of a bottle of Jameson. How he managed to fling them so high she has no idea. There's no way she'll be able to reach them without assistance.

She'd told him her secret. And the bottom had fallen out. But it's okay because what she'd lost was her fear. She'd followed him. And the bottom had fallen out. But it's okay because what she'd lost was worth less than what she'd gained. She ran. But it's okay because he'd followed, because she followed him right back.

She dove in. But she feels like she's soaring.

So no, she's not worried.

Except maybe a little bit about how she's going to retrieve her panties.

She raises a hand to cover her giggle, uses her other to spin him around and point to the scrap of lace adorning the bottle of Scotch.

"I hope you don't expect me to climb up there and retrieve those," he says with a devilish leer.

She considers it, but thinks better of the idea. She owes him one. She owes him a hundred. It's not a cup of coffee but she has a feeling he won't mind.

"Consider them a gift," she smirks. "Come on, Rick. Take me home."

"The loft?" he asks hopefully.

"Home," she says with a nod, placing a hand on his arm.

She knows by the adoring gaze that she said just the right thing.

* * *

><p>The Beginning.<p>

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><p><strong>AN: Actually it's the end. But isn't "The Beginning" so much more..hopeful? **

**This is where I gush about Nicole. She rocks my socks. She kicks my ass. She prods and she pokes and she _really_ likes the seks!**

**One last chance to tell me you liked it and feed my ego... Hint, hint. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.**


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